Instrumental
by yadon
Summary: Simon's attempt to avoid the post-ceremony festivities after being awarded the King of Prosecutors trophy is hindered by one Klavier Gavin, and the discussion that follows leads him to consider that the confusing process known as daily life is not something he can — or should — venture through alone. [Simon & Klavier bro-ness; past Blackbright mentioned]


For a man recently granted freedom after seven years on death row, Simon Blackquill hadn't expected it possible to be as utterly __trapped__ as he is now.

Kirsten Payne — another prosecutor he's never heard of, let alone met, until tonight — won't quit yammering (all in good fun, so she claims) about how she will usurp the King of Prosecutors award from Simon next year. How she will follow in the footsteps of her uncle Gaspen, and Simon makes the mistake of blurting out "who?", encouraging the squeaky-voiced madam to expound on the accomplishments of this unheard relation of hers.

Beyond Ms. Payne, on the opposite end of the ballroom, stands Edgeworth-san — the Chief — deep in conversation with a brown-haired officer dressed in what appears to be a lab tech's jacket.

 _ _All__ his fellow prosecutors, and much of the police department are engaged in some sort of social interaction, for it is the evening following the annual awards ceremony.

Simon does not want to be here. He does not __belong__ here. And he certainly does not deserve the trophy resting on the table beside him, that is currently being eyed by Ms. Payne much in the way Taka eyes the squirrels who like to explore outside Simon's (formerly, Aura's) apartment.

Like she may swoop off with it in her clutches.

He wouldn't mind in the least, if it would result in her leaving.

"Pardon me, Ms. Payne." Simon cuts off his talkative associate mid-sentence. "My glass needs refilling."

They both glance at the champagne flute between Simon's fingers, still three-quarters full and contradicting his statement.

Simon brings it to his lips, tilts his head back and drains it in one long go.

Ignoring the confused call of Ms. Payne and the frivolous greetings of other officers and prosecutors he has no connection to, Simon weaves his way through the crowd and to the meandering waiter carrying a tray full of champagne flutes.

He exchanges his empty glass for a new one, and out the corner of his eye, Simon catches the bright neon letters above the ballroom's exit designating it as such.

So taking it for what it is — a sign — Simon makes his escape, champagne in one hand and most definitely not that useless trophy in the other.

* * *

For two months, Simon Blackquill has been a free man and in those two months, he has done nothing remotely useful, healthy, or even __un__ healthy.

The most effort he puts forth each day is that of peeling himself out of bed to ensure that Taka is fed and tended to, and in his beloved friend's clicks of affection he temporarily experiences the value he once held — and no longer does — while honoring Cykes-sama's influence on him.

But __this__ , tonight... he'd __tried__ , dammit. For Athena, who was rightly concerned with the amount of time Simon kept to himself, especially with his forced hiatus giving him the potential to do so.

He'd promised her he'd attend, although left out the fact that he would not even be considering it if the chief hadn't called and asked him to. Or no, it was less __asking__ and more an invitation. Not "Will you be attending?" but "I would greatly appreciate it if you'd attend, Prosecutor Blackquill."

Followed by a courtesy not typically extended: the revelation that Simon would be receiving the King of Prosecutors trophy due to his involvement in bringing the Dark Age of the Law to a memorable end.

Chief Edgeworth had even allowed him to decline; that he was more than understanding of the undue stress the event could cause someone in Simon's position. But he also hoped that Simon would understand under his leadership the award carried a deeper significance than serving as an over-sized tchotchke that would inevitably function as little more than a dust-collector.

From anyone else, he would have perceived all this as pity. But Chief Edgeworth had been one of the few persons daring to put their faith in Simon and his innocence, and Simon forbade his own discomfort to overrule such a genuinely amicable gesture.

And yet, here he is, fighting a losing battle and choosing to flee — or, no, he can't simply retreat when faced with adversity. He's merely regrouping, taking a breather and will return to the fray once he's able to organize his thoughts and rid his mind of all the illogical, __useless__ ones inhibiting his ability to just __be free__ , dammit!

He will not surrender.

He finds himself on the other side of the Gatewater Imperial, in another ballroom constructed similarly, if not exactly, like the one he'd just come from.

Except this one is abandoned, other than the grand piano and its bench in the furthest corner. And it's pitch dark, save for a fuzzy edge of external illumination along full-length windowed doors that lead to, from what it looks like, a veranda.

The darkness, the shadows, the incredible __emptiness__ of this spare ballroom — Simon feels a certain safety, the security that comes with familiarity. Most of all, he trusts __himself__ here. Whereas amongst the rest of the world, in the never-ending flow of life, he can not.

Wants to, but can not. Freedom — the __world__ out there — it's still too bright, too hot to the touch in many ways with its __hope__ and courage and compassion. And Simon, having already erred by letting that brightness filter through the curtain of misery encircling him, and being burned so all-consumingly by it — he will be more careful this second time around.

This second time that shouldn't be.

He seats himself on the piano's bench, and rests the champagne flute atop the piano's covered keys. He's mired in a trance-like stillness for no more than thirty seconds when the phone in his pocket buzzes.

Athena.

He reads her latest text, a reply after he'd sent her a picture nearly an hour ago, of the surplus of hors d'oeurves provided by the Gatewater this evening.

[ _ _Mon dieu!__ __Those look amazing! Smuggle some back for me? :3]__

She's of the mind he's having a splendid time tonight, out of his apartment and dressing the part of the esteemed prosecutor he's being honored as. Somewhere on the road to recovery after laying motionless, stranded off to the side of it for the past two months.

He considers his response, then sends it. __[Quite the brazen assumption, that I have not devoured them all already.]__

He hadn't; pigs in a blanket were palatable enough in small helpings, not something to be made a __meal__ of. However, Simon finds them — food, in general, really — an excellent bait in fishing amusingly melodramatic reactions out of Athena.

Another near-instantaneous reply, and precisely what he'd been angling for. __[YOU MONSTER! D: But ur having a good time right? RIGHT?]__

It's felony-level, the degree of abuse the English language suffers at the thumbs of Athena Cykes. ____

__[Heh. There is an open bar, to answer your question.]__

It's not an answer, truly. But she'll be with her friends, the trio from the Themis Academy. He can not disrupt her fun by being honest with her.

He's yet to be entirely honest with her in __any__ regard, but that's beside the point. That time will come – she won't allow it not to – but Athena provides a unique form of entertainment to Simon that he finds tremendously beneficial in its own right.

And while their communication is harmless enough, Simon knows once they meet again face to face, Athena will address his self-effacing humor, his references to questionable coping mechanisms. It's how she operates, he's beginning to learn. Not __ignoring__ the discord — because, __oh,__ is there discord — but letting Simon get it __out__ without the perception of if it's right or if it's wrong, and just letting it __exist__ in the open.  
 _ _  
[Heehee. Yeah alcohol helps... oops I mean yeah I'll bet it helps, not that I'd know! ;)]__

Then there is, conversely, the moments where he wonders how someone as intuitive as Athena can also be so openly guileless, testing not only Simon's patience but the lengths he will go to if said patience is breached. _ _  
__  
 _ _[You'd had certainly better not, unless you'd like your movie nights at golden bot's to be chaperoned.]__

Drat, damned autocorrect!

 _ _[Golden boy's*]__

 _ _[Ew? Ok ok DAD, I swear we're behaving! LEGALLY. But I'll leave u alone for now ... Golden BOT rofl... he's gonna get the CAH beatdown of a lifetime! ;)]__

 _ _[Good. One of many he deserves. I will inform you when the evening is nearing its end.]__

Athena was his ride to this __soirée__ , which is much too far from his apartment to simply walk to, and will reprise her role as chauffeur after it's over. Simon is still without his license; his permit, he's reacquired, but the road test is scheduled for a few weeks out.

If only the Gatewater weren't in such an unfamiliar part of the city, he'd begin walking home now and allow Athena to have the fun evening with friends that she rightfully deserved.

Or, perhaps... he _ _could__ just head out. Wander the streets with the notion of finding his way home, but the __hope__ of disappearing, some way, somehow. Back into the darkness, never to be heard from again — never to be a burden, or a headache. He's become nothing but a __task,__ taking away from someone spending time with friends who enrich her life, not remind her of what and __who__ she's lost along the way.

Decision made, he stands, but promptly sits back down when his phone buzzes again as he reaches for it. He taps the message, and its photo attachment, open.

 _ _[Cheers!]__ Athena's winking, lifting a red solo cup that he forces himself to believe contains cola. Beside her, Miss Newman is also grinning and flashing a peace sign.

He automatically finds the champagne glass and raises it, whispers "Cheers" to nothing and no one. Unwillingly, he imagines it clinking against Fool Bright's own — he should, __would__ be here tonight, after all — before downing a large swallow. Simon hiccups at the intake, eyes stinging from the fizziness mixing with the memory of the equally effervescent smile that, despite his (admittedly biased) opinion otherwise, __could__ be duplicated.

And just like that...

It's a small miracle, how he's able to reset the flute down without dropping it. He plants both elbows upon the keys' lid, hunching forward to hide his face in open palms.

Simon's mind flatlines into static until a whispery __tchick__! of the room's door opening disturbs it. Behind his closed eyelids are bursts of whiteness as the lights switch on.

"' _ _Lonely is the night, when you find yourself alone,__ " comes a lilting tenor, far-off enough to be from the doorway.

He's heard that voice plenty of times piped through the sound system in the prison; the nitwits who worked there were somehow under the impression that Top 40 radio toned __down__ the homicidal tendencies in unhinged murderers.

His immediate thought is, has Gavin come here of his own accord, or was he sent? The former, Simon decides as he rises and crosses to the doorway where Gavin still stands, watching him curiously. Firmly gripped in his hands is that accursed trophy.

Gavin does not move, only asks a question that makes Simon wish he were still in the crosshairs of Kirsten Payne's pointless babbling. "What are you doing?"

"Trying to get the bloody hell out of here." Simon tries to go around Gavin, but his co-worker sidesteps, blocking him off. "Move of your own volition, Gavin-dono, before I render you unable to do so."

Gavin chuckles. "Ah, it'll be good to work with you again, Herr Blackquill. I missed your brand of humor."

"I am hardly jesting. And what, praytell, are __you__ doing?" Simon's gaze slides to the trophy Gavin is still holding tight.

"Returning this trophy to its rightful owner. And no, I'm not joking either."

Klavier Gavin, it seems, has been around to extend a helping hand towards Simon whether or not it's been requested of him. Or, no, that's not quite accurate: Klavier Gavin has helped Simon on a couple different occasions, and __never__ has Simon appealed for it.

The last time Gavin "helped" him, it was over a year ago; Simon's final consultation with him during the training cases Chief Edgeworth had Simon involved in before his return to prosecuting. An exercise for both of them: Simon's sanity and competency being vouched for, with Gavin-dono adjusting to only one career, after being forced to do away with his other.

And also adjusting, Simon had come to learn through the prison's grapevine, to living life without a brother who had removed Gavin from his own life long before Gavin was notified of it.

"Why don't __you__ take it, Gavin-dono? It suits you more than it does me. Brings out your eyes." Simon smirks, attempting to play to the superficiality Gavin is known for exhibiting, made even more evident by the outfit he's dressed himself in tonight.

A dapper turquoise dress shirt, sleeves rolled up and encased by a black vest shot through with silvery threads acting as pinstripes. The shirt's top button is open, exposing a thin chain necklace from which a glassy onyx stone dangles. It is cut to resemble a guitar pick.

He's dressed to impress, though who in the world platinum recording artist Klavier Gavin has left to impress, Simon can't begin to speculate.

"Hah, you sound like the Fraulein Detective, trying to flatter me so. She said the same about her latest concoction, a spray to help detect various DNA residue left on electronics." Gavin's gaze turns a bit starry, his smile wistful, for all of a split-second. Then, a scrunchy frown answering Simon's musings from a moment ago. "Or... hm, no, I believe she said it would __remove__ my eyes, and she was perfectly willing to demonstrate."

This levity from Gavin allows him to catch Simon off guard, and the trophy is thrust at Simon the way one might chest-pass a basketball.

"I don't want it." He shoves it back at Gavin. "I don't __deserve__ it."

"You aided in capturing an international criminal. Others — yours truly, for instance — have been awarded this trophy for accomplishing much less."

"I did nothing. He was under my nose the entire time, and I was too blinded by —" Simon cuts himself off; what he was blinded by is far too intricate and personal to divulge to Gavin-dono. He hasn't even shared it with Athena or Aura, as he can hardly begin to make sense of it himself. "Too blind. To see it. I may as well have been part of the gallery. "

Athena throwing her adolescence away and conquering her fears — or doing her best to, yet sometimes temporarily succumbing as Simon had to stand stone-faced pretending it didn't horrify him. Aura, finally snapping and knowingly facing jail time by becoming the criminal she sought to disprove her brother of being. Justice, emotionally and physically battered, still soldiering through for Terran's sake. Wright, valiantly bluffing as if his daughter's life wasn't hanging by a thread.

And Bobby Fulbright. Giving the ultimate sacrifice.

To save him.

But __Simon__ did nothing, and Klavier Gavin knows nothing. He also says nothing, only holds the award upside-down so he can study its base. There's a plaque soldered to it, and Gavin's long finger traces where his own name appears several above Simon's.

At last, Gavin speaks, although not necessarily to Simon. More thinking aloud, still examining the trophy. "You know, Chief Edgeworth really put a lot of effort into changing... all this. The awards ceremony. This is only the second year it's been here, at the Gatewater. It never used to be like this, it was always —"

"I know." Simon interrupts, and Gavin is predictably puzzled, of how Simon could __know__ this. "How it was, that is. I... I've heard. From others."

Last year — to the day, almost — Fool Bright had been honored for his contributions to the police department; for his excellent attendance, his mentoring of new recruits, and most especially his success working with rehabilitating criminals.

At the time, no one had known the award was posthumous.

He — or, who Simon thought was him — had been so proud, in his Fool Bright way. For nigh on twenty minutes the next day, he'd prattled on to Simon about how fancy the ceremony was now with Edgeworth in charge, compared to his early years as an officer where it was much more business-like, at the police department itself and not a regal hotel such as the Gatewater.

And now Simon is left to wonder: what would Bobby Fulbright think of __him__ winning the prosecutor's equivalent of the same award, at his expense?

(But really, he doesn't have to wonder; the way his heart constricts, tighter than the hug Fool Bright would give him, is answer enough.)

"And you still don't want it, Blackquill? I don't mean to be so critical of you, but it's a terrible slight to Herr Edgeworth for you to decide this __now__. He's trying, I think, to make it truly represent something again, and not be the ah... __curse__ it once was."

"Cursed? How so?"

"Manfred von Karma was the winner of this for many years, and we all... know what happened to him, although I believe that had little to do with a trophy. But it's my understanding Herr Edgeworth celebrated his day in the sun by finding a detective's body in his car trunk afterwards. Murdered. And that's not even the worst of it." Gavin's finger trails along the list of names, stops at one Simon doesn't recognize. "Another prosecutor who won this award was killed, the very same day... "

"Is that so?"

"The Fraulein Detective told me, once. I take her word for it."

What the point of Gavin's anecdote is, Simon isn't sure of yet. What he __is__ certain of, is that Gavin will not turn down a chance to talk about himself, however vaguely. And if it means getting away from this dissecting he's intent on doing of Simon...

"And what about you? What woes did you suffer from due to this... __this__?"

"I believe it was just before you began your career." He speaks with no fondness, which is inevitable now considering his accomplishments from that year were all orchestrated by a sinister hand. "And the day __after__ a show in front of a sold-out crowd in San Diego. You could say I was feeling a bit of, er... __feedback__ from how hard we rocked the night before."

Simon rolls his eyes. "Irony at its very finest, I must say."

" _ _Ja__ , don't I know it. I actually came up with our song 'No Statute of Limitations to my Love' while in the audience, waiting to be called up. The only way I could distract myself from how horrible I felt was by writing in my head, you know?"

Simon hums, familiar with the concept of displacing himself mentally in order to endure certain situations. The opposite of the presence, of the mindfulness preached about when it came to the recovery process – and what had become a necessary tactic, all too often.

"But anyway, of course when I got up on stage to receive my award my picture was taken with our chief at the time. Not just the newspaper, but magazines, entertainment blogs — you name it." Gavin laughs ruefully. "I should have been paying more attention to my outfit than my music. Every one of those photographers captured my stylish ensemble of a satin shirt and leather pants — with the zipper down."

It's classically juvenile, something he should have been amused by when he was nine, not twenty-nine. But a laugh spurts out nonetheless, followed by an apology that's choppy from said dying laughter. "I er... my condolences, Gavin-dono... how very unfortunate, and... heh."

"Oh, don't be. I had the distinction of being the first person to crash the servers at __Hollywood__ __Central__ 's celebrity gossip blog. It is what we in the business call a 'learning opportunity.' Or, that is what my publicist told me; my bandmates called it 'fucking hilarious.'"

Simon sees now where Gavin-dono would have been successful, winning favor from every corner of the legal system with his charisma. He has probably told this tale a hundred times over, but still describes it in this shiny manner that makes Simon believe he is privileged, __special__ for having it told to __him__.

"I personally think it a little of each."

"Hah, fair enough. But you see, Blackquill, we all have our embarrassing moments. I'm not saying you need to necessarily __embrace__ all this, but it does little good to exit stage left like this. Somehow or another, __something__ will happen that will force you to... ah, well, I hate being cliche, but to face the music, in one way or the other."

"I'm not __embarrassed__." Gavin isn't wrong, but Simon can't say that he's right, either. "I'm...! It's... it's complicated." Because it was. Still is. Can't imagine it ever __won't__ be.

"What is? The social aspect?"

"No," Simon answers too quickly, then amends, "That is, I... it __is__ , but not for the reasons you are inferring."

"And what am I inferring, if I may ask?"

"It's not... an __anxiety__ of any sort." He hates this assumption; that due to his time in prison, anything that __could__ be "wrong" with a person is, in fact, wrong with Simon Blackquill. "It's simply... not something I was prepared for. __Ready__ for."

"Didn't Herr Edgeworth speak with you beforehand? At least, that's the impression I got when I talked to him briefly, before I went off looking for you."

"That's not what I mean. It's... the awful... the awful __things__ that all accompanied this ceremony. I wasn't ready. The speech, and this godforsaken party... and..." His heartbeat quickens, the rest of the sentence dries up in his mouth. __This__ __conversation.__

"So you reject it? Because you are not ready? Perpetually waiting for a cue is hardly the most effective way to go about being human. Otherwise you'd spend your whole life in the wings."

A slight discomfort crawls over Simon, at the way Gavin says this. Like it's not only for Simon to hear but something Gavin himself needs to reaffirm. Still, it's not his place to be sharing it with Simon to begin with. "Tch. Are you really trying to use psychoanalytics on me, Gavin-dono? Imitation may allow you to pass yourself off as a warrior, but it is not a weapon that can ever truly be mastered. Sooner or later, it will only ever expose you for a fool."

"Hah, well, I can assure you without any grand reveal, Blackquill, that I am quite foolish." He is, as always, keeping his words trimmed with that teasing edge, but Simon knows enough to find Gavin's assertion just as depressing as anything that's entered his own thoughts.

"Gavin..." Simon starts, but Gavin waves him off.

"All I meant was to point out that you are no different than anyone else. Those awful __things__ you described, that you so adamantly want to reject —"

"Emotions," Simon supplies flatly, not liking the implication he was perhaps too __cowardly__ to name them for what they were. Are.

" _ _Ja__ , those. Allowing yourself to have them. That's what comes with your newfound freedom, I'm afraid. Otherwise, I don't think you could truly consider yourself exonerated."

"You speak as if from personal experience."

"Not all prisoners wear chains that can be seen." The solemnity of Gavin's statement stuns Simon. And visibly enough too, because Gavin continues, "Listen, Blackquill. I didn't want to be here tonight any more than you do. I don't think our reasons are __quite__ the same, but they're probably close enough."

 _ _Then leave__ , Simon thinks, but rationally knowing it's not an authentic thought on his end. It's just an automatic response, his insecurities taking over not because he __wants__ Gavin-dono to leave but because he __knows__ that, inevitably, he will.

Carefully, he reorganizes these pieces into something that will inflict less damage on either of them. "Then this is where we go out separate ways." He takes the trophy from Gavin to prove how he firm he is in this statement. And it's what Gavin wanted all along, isn't it?

" _ _Nein,__ didn't you hear me when I said the curse was a thing of the past? While Herr Edgeworth discovered a corpse and I very nearly destroyed the world wide web, __you__ are being invited to grab a drink with a former international rock star."

Simon squints at Gavin, waiting for what must be the punch line. "I beg your pardon?"

"Didn't you greet me by telling me you were trying to get the 'bloody hell out of here'? This is my invitation for you to do so — with me."

"I don't quite follow."

"There's a bar in WeHo that the Gavinners used to play at, before we made it big, and I still make it a point to be a regular there. It's karaoke night, and perhaps you'd enjoy indulging in other peoples' embarrassment instead of wallowing in your own. I would be on my way already, if not for a more pressing matter —" Gavin levels his gaze on Simon. "— that I had to attend to."

It's an interesting proposition, and Simon isn't terrified by it. Or he's at least less anxious about it than he was about attending the ceremony tonight. Maybe it's because of how unexpectant Gavin sounds — that he does not seem to be anticipating Simon to answer one way or the other.

Simon has no trouble searching for more info by way of a dry observation. "You surprise me, Gavin-dono. I didn't expect you to be such a proponent of reveling in others' misfortunes."

"Probably not near as much as you, Blackquill. Think of it, how we'll be enjoying such beloved pastimes from each others' cultures. Me, karaoke; you, __schadenfreude__. How harmonious of us, wouldn't you agree?"

Simon bites the inside of his cheek as he tries to come up with a witty reply, anything not betraying the fact that, simply...

"Yes, I suppose I would. I do have one condition, though."

"You refuse to be anything other than a member of the audience?" Gavin grins, Simon nods, and Gavin grins even wider. "Understandable; you've had enough of the spotlight for one night."

Simon's kneejerk reaction — or, rather, his __depression's__ kneejerk reaction — is to decline, for Gavin to come away as nothing but yet another also-ran. Only, it's hard to accept that Gavin's offer is born out of a desire to outwit him, to win as if this were some sparring match. If anything, he senses Gavin is in need of company as much as he believes Simon requires it.

And even if Simon's incorrect...

It'll be an interesting story to tell Athena.

* * *

"I thought you rode a motorcycle," Simon comments when they approach the sleek yet modest black convertible. It's no more garish than anything else parked in the office's garage, and he has always secretly enjoyed the concept of convertibles; it must be similar, if only slightly, to the sensation Taka experiences while soaring across the skies.

"I used to. I thought a change was in order — or, well, a change __I__ decided to make, that is." Gavin unlocks the driver's side, then the passenger's, and the both of them climb in. As he's turning the ignition, he calmly adds, "And automobiles are far less risky to drive than a motorcycle."

Gavin doesn't need to elaborate; as someone with expertise in handling a weapon as lethal as a katana, Simon knows too well the temptation that has come and gone and hasn't quite __ever__ stopped coming back, at bringing that blade down on his most dangerous foe: himself.

For how constantly their conversation has been dipping into the dark shallows of depression, Simon doesn't mind Gavin's candidness with him, nor is it a struggle to reciprocate. He understands it's not for the purpose of drawing forth pity, or dismissing Simon's own insecurities. Simply, it sounds very much that, like Simon himself, Gavin is merely __attempting__ to come to terms with what it's like to be a human being.

The fifteen minute drive is almost entirely silent, not even filled by music streaming from Gavin's radio. There's only the occasional muttering of words — or, more likely, lyrics — that slip from Gavin's mouth. Simon is unable to discern it clearly enough to tell if it's Gavin's own composition, another artist, or something unfinished, unpublished, that is exclusive to whatever frequency Gavin's mind is tuned to.

They arrive at the bar, and it is somewhat less seedy than Simon had foreseen it — but only somewhat. The staff, however, greet Gavin like an old friend and lead the two of them to a table stationed along the far wall. It and several adjacent tables are on a raised platform that provide a blessed amount of privacy, with how dim the lighting is. Down the steps from this section is a long counter that almost splits the building in two. A pool of more tables fill the space between these borders, and against the remaining wall is the stage that is outfitted properly for a long night of karaoke. _ ___

Drinks and food are on the house, the server tells them. Gavin doesn't even have to flirt with them to accomplish this, and their good-natured dialogue tells Simon that Gavin really wasn't exaggerating when he said he was still a regular here.

Simon does wonder, with more than a little concern, just __how__ regular Gavin might be at this, and other bars. But at least for tonight, Gavin sticks with an iced tea and a large order of fries to share. The effects from the champagne having nearly dissipated, Simon opts for some hard apple cider.

No more than five minutes after they place their order, the karaoke begins. It evokes a broad spectrum of reactions from the crowd. Equal parts painful, inspiring, and entertaining, the other patrons eat it up.

Gavin, on the contrary, doesn't show any of this, merely watches the way a judge might blithely survey a competition, on one of those reality programs. He seems to be enjoying himself, applauding politely for each performer. Simon realizes, by the fifth song, that he has been more interested in observing Gavin and his nearly imperceptible shifts in expression than the would-be singers themselves.

Yet, he can't tear his eyes away, and as a twangy country sing-along ends, Gavin catches him with a flicking sidelong glance of his own.

"A euro for your thoughts, Blackquill?"

He must think Simon is as equally lost in thought — and he is, in a way, he supposes. Simon grasps for something completely pointless to bring up, and bides his time by stuffing a couple ketchup-dipped fries in his mouth, before answering.

"So, if I'm doing my maths correctly, you would have started playing here while underage?"

"Hah, well, our drummer was over eighteen — and dating the owner's granddaughter. Besides, we played on the deck out back, not __in__ the bar. That stage couldn't contain us." Gavin nods to the woman on stage who is more than amply filling out her ruffled blouse and writhing about as she sings something to the effect of the audience not being ready for this... jelly?

Simon takes a long drink of his cider and turns away from the performance (if one could really call it that), to ask Gavin something that's been on his mind ever since Gavin divulged it. "You said you didn't want to attend the ceremony tonight. Can I ask what swayed your decision to do so?"

"Fraulein Newman."

Simon wasn't expecting the __what__ to be a __who__ , which he reveals with a curious "Oh?"

"Ever since that trial last year — which I'm sure you recall — I've stayed in touch with the two frauleins, especially Robin. She's looking forward to beginning her career in a few months, and I've been more than happy to provide her with any information she needs about life at the prosecutor's office. We talk about other things too: the creative arts... and Professor Courte..."

Simon stops him with an "I see" at the mention of the late teacher. While Gavin-dono doesn't have the same history with Miss Newman that he himself does with Athena, he can appreciate the bond they must have formed in this short time – apparently enough to encourage Gavin to put in an appearance tonight.

"She made this necklace for me." Gavin lifts a hand from his glass to touch the black stone dangling around his neck. "I am a walking advertisement for up-and-coming __uber-__ artist-prosecutor, Robin Newman. And I did have more than a couple comments on this tonight, so I'd say our marketing campaign is working... ah!"

Gavin's phone buzzes, not for the first time in the past several minutes, a bright white rectangle indicating '1 New Message' from a 'Fraulein Newman'.

"You say you're close, yet you've not honored her with one of your unique monikers." Perhaps he's presumptuous in assuming Gavin's habits, but he himself was bestowed with one of the choice nicknames Gavin was so fond of giving to those he worked with — or against.

For a few short months, Gavin had greeted Simon every time they crossed paths with " _ _Guten tag__ , Herr Schwarz" and Simon, too reserved and anxious — thinking, even, that it was a passive form of teasing — had never bothered to correct him. It was only after accumulating a widespread amount of general knowledge during his seven years in the clink through inmates and reading material alike that he'd realized Gavin had only been referring to the monochrome scheme of Simon's clothing, and part of his surname.

"Ah, but you should see her smile whenever I simply address her as 'Fraulein'," he says as typing out a response to Miss Newman. "I can make exceptions on case-to-case basis."

Gavin's no sooner replied to Miss Newman than she immediately volleys back. Which makes Simon wonder what Athena is up to, but then remembers: it's his turn to reply. She's keeping a respectable distance, probably of the thought he's tied up with whatever might being going on at the ceremony.

"Hah! Oh, Fraulein, be careful what you wish for." Gavin shakes his head at his newest text.

"What?" Simon asks, only partly sure he wants to know the answer.

"I told her where I am — and who I'm with. But she wishes for proof of this excursion. I think this is her roundabout way of hinting that, in the future, I should invite her and her friends — your friends, too, _ _ja__?"

"Er, something of that nature." Simon is not about to quibble on the classification he has for each individual. By association with Athena, even in the loosest sense — yes, they are his friends. "But um... how exactly are you going to __prove__ any of this."

He hopes it's not by recording the poor sop currently on stage, belting out his misery about how he longs for yesterday, when his troubles seemed so far away.

"The same way I — and you — would in court, of course. Evidence." He passes the phone over to Simon, with the front-facing camera application already open. "You may do the honors, as you've the longer wingspan."

The last time he posed for a picture was a couple hours ago, shaking Chief Edgeworth's hand when he received the trophy. And before that, it was seven years ago, for his mugshot.

(He's been __in__ photos between them – Athena springing up unannounced and clicking candids before sprinting away – but those don't count. To him, anyway.)

There's the weight of Gavin's arm as it's lazily slung over Simon's shoulder. Just like the support Gavin has provided him, intentional or not, it is wholly unasked for but not necessarily unwelcome, and it startles Simon.

In a good way. A smile forms, close-mouthed but full enough he __feels__ it push on his cheeks as he stretches the phone out at arm's length.

He taps the screen with his thumb, capturing the two of them.

Gavin is flashing the rock and roll horns with his other hand, but his grin is hardly the jagged, devil-may-care type that is airbrushed upon album covers. He appears far less manufactured than how Simon is guilty of depicting him in his mind, and perhaps Miss Newman being the recipient of this photo has something to do with it. Simon too, sees traces of the man he is trying to be — that is, not the Twisted Samurai, but himself. __Simon__.

Before Simon can plead for Gavin to not busy the photo up with those absurd stickers and filters Athena insists on desecrating all her pictures with, it is sent straight off to Miss Newman.

From the stage comes the poppy bounce of a song most people classify as either "new wave" or, alternately, "processed cheese", with its repeating chorus begging for their beloved to wake them up before they go (go). And it hurts, the tug behind his ribs as he recalls a smiling face that enjoyed that song completely unironically, playing it in his cruiser after transporting Simon back from one of his many evaluations.

It will always hurt, he supposes. Or at least, for a very long time.

A long time. Simon can't help but laugh to himself as he watches the performer on stage bop around. How odd, to think that he even __has__ a long time in front of him.

As it is, the song lasts another rousing chorus, and Simon finds himself looking forward not to the __long time__ ahead of him, but the next couple minutes. There's a brief delay as the DJ fusses with a speaker the previous performer — who had filled in their song choice before Simon did his, while Gavin was in the restroom — kicked over amidst all their energetic flailing.

"What does Miss Newman think of you joining the sorry ranks of the amateurs tonight?"

"You're mistaken, Blackquill. Those days are far behind me. I'm only here to see old friends and enjoy the rockin' atmosphere."

It's so much more than that, Simon knows. But he obliges Gavin with an "Oh?"and a far less sympathetic smirk.

"Next up, we have..." The DJ clears his throat, confusion evident. " _ _Gavin__ singing 'Lonely is the Night'."

Gavin's eyes are wide, his question not needing to be asked.

Simon leans back, casual against the tension upticking throughout the bar, the expected murmurs. "Gavin-dono, did you not advise me how we must face such adversity with our blade at the ready. That is, not shy away from life's many surprises, no matter how unprepared we may be?"

"Touché. Although I did not expect you to take my advice so... __soon__." He takes a quick sip of iced tea and pushes out of his chair. "Normally, I wouldn't do this, but... you know, my promise to Robin... it would be in poor taste to disappoint her after how invested she seems in this little outing of ours."

"It would also be in poor taste for you to perform, even in front of an empty orchestra, with your zipper down."

Gavin double-takes only to find his slacks perfectly zipped, then shoots Simon a glare that's only half-annoyed.

He winds over to the stage, swaggering up the steps as though it's a sold-out arena. The cheers are far longer and louder than for anyone else, and Simon can see the rest of the crowd with their phones up, ready to preserve this impromptu serenade from a renowned celebrity.

And Gavin, though hardly chagrined, doesn't radiate rock-star confidence as he idly chatters with the DJ, away from the microphone. Then he grabs it, does a "check, one-two" that is met with squeals of adoration.

For a split-second, Simon thinks, __Have I gone too far__? He meant it well enough, but didn't he __always__ mean everything well enough? His pranks — they were harmless, yes, but that was only in his estimation.

What if Gavin-dono...

...Laughs? It's light, but the mic magnifies it, sending it echoing throughout the bar.

Simon exhales and finds his cider, a thin smile forming as he takes a sip. He nearly spits the cider out when, as the peel of an electric guitar starts up, Gavin (it could just be the lighting, but he __swears__ ) winks, and points at him.

"This one's for you, Herr Schwarz."

His phone jitters against the tabletop. Athena. Miss Newman must have shown her the photo, and he'll be glad to offer up more details. Once this song ends.

He does not believe in whatever __curse__ Gavin-dono wants to claim the King of Prosecutors trophy once carried with it, but it's difficult to argue that __something__ deep within him, if only for this evening, has been lifted.

* * *

 _I wrote this because I'm constantly thinking about Simon's life post-DD and post-SoJ, especially in the context of, what if he had briefly known the real Bobby Fulbright and formed some sort of relationship with him (which I know goes against canon but I don't care because Blackbright rules my life). I mean, even if he hadn't, just being betrayed like he was – by someone he didn't truly know, is a lot for him to handle._

 _So I wanted to explore him trying to move past all that and having a support group with people like Athena (which is to be expected) and Klavier (which is unexpected! But I think they could become friends and form a certain kind of friendship that would benefit the both of them)._

 _Hope you liked! Feedback is always nice. :]_


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